


Cliché Bingo

by noangelsinthegarrison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Jock Dean, M/M, Neighbors, Nerd Castiel, Pining Castiel, Pining Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:25:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noangelsinthegarrison/pseuds/noangelsinthegarrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Castiel thinks that if he were playing a game of cliché bingo with his own life he’d get a full house within seconds. He’s the smart kid who wears glasses; he’s the Christian who wears sweater vests; he’s the quietest, youngest son in a family of seven and, oh yes, he’s in love with Dean Winchester.</p><p>Who just happens to be his best friend. And his neighbour. And a jock. So that’s three in one right there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [my tumblr](http://forgetmenotcas.tumblr.com)

Sometimes, Castiel thinks that if he were playing a game of cliché bingo with his own life he’d get a full house within seconds. He’s the smart kid who wears glasses; he’s the Christian who wears sweater vests; he’s the quietest, youngest son in a family of seven and, oh yes, he’s in love with Dean Winchester.

Who just happens to be his best friend. And his neighbour.  _And_  a jock. So that’s three in one right there.

Castiel sighs. He doesn’t even remember a time when his heart didn’t jump in his chest at the sight of Dean, though he supposes when the Winchesters moved in next door fourteen years ago, Castiel hadn’t, at the tender age of four, had the same kind of fantasies about Dean’s lips. He doesn’t remember, age five or six or seven, wanting to taste every one of Dean’s smiles; hadn’t been so desperate at age ten to feel their skin pressed together; but he  _does_  remember, even then, looking at Dean in his childlike innocence and thinking  _Yes, this one. This is the boy I want to marry._

If nothing else, it’s annoying that if his feelings are such a cliché, there isn’t some kind of handbook.

‘ _Unrequited Love for Dummies’_ , perhaps? Castiel would read that.

Or maybe ‘ _Pathetic Pining 101’_ , Castiel could write that one himself. In fact, he spends about 90% of his life in step one: ‘watch him longingly even as he does the most mundane tasks imaginable’.

Like right now. Castiel sighs again as he presses his forehead against the window he’s currently staring through. It’s cool against his skin, should be soothing, except Dean’s outside in the fall sun, raking leaves into a neat corner of his front yard and Castiel, no matter what he tells himself, can’t look away.

It’s nothing exciting, it isn’t like a couple of months ago when Dean mowed the lawn in the summer heat with no shirt on and Castiel had left grooves in the palms of his hands from how hard he was clenching his fists. This is dull in comparison really, and yet in some ways it’s even more captivating. This is love he feels, watching Dean clear the path with a contented smile on his face. It hurts more than lust, and it’s infinitely harder to shake.

Eventually Dean turns, heading back towards the house with a stretch and Castiel is too weary to even pretend he was looking at anything else. Dean catches sight of him in the window and his face lights up, waving goofily in Castiel’s direction.

Castiel’s heart twists familiarly in his chest. Maybe one day he’ll tell him. ‘ _I watched you raking leaves’_ he’ll say, and Dean will know it means ‘ _I love you’_. But for now Castiel just smiles softly, unwraps one arm from around his knees, and waves back.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes, Dean looks at Cas and doesn’t understand why no one else sees him. He feels sorry for them really, their classmates who look at Cas and see a pair of glasses and a ridiculous collection of patterned sweater vests. They don’t see the way Cas’s hands come up to adjust his glasses when he’s nervous, or that he only ever wears his light blue sweater vest when he’s happy. It’s because of the little bumblebees stitched around the bottom hem, Dean knows. But no one else does.

When they meet by their front gates every morning, the Novaks’ black iron beside the Winchesters’ chipped wood, Cas smiles at him just enough to show at the corners of his eyes and Dean feels selfish in how glad he is that no one at school sees this either.

Then again, the people at school don’t seem to see much of anything. Sure, they look at Dean plenty, more than half the cheerleading squad practically line up to flirt with the quarterback every day, yet none of them seem to notice he’s too busy learning the different shades of blue in Cas’s eyes to look back. It’s weird, Dean thinks, how invisible he can feel even with a hundred pairs of eyes on him.

It’s terribly cliché, really. The jock who hides behind a pretty face and a give-‘em-hell attitude, pining after the school nerd. Slash his best friend. Slash his neighbour. It’s all very High School.

Except Cas doesn’t need to take off his glasses or buy a new wardrobe to be beautiful and it pisses Dean off that so many of these dumbass romantic comedies suggest he should have to. He doesn’t need to be dragged to a party, or ditch any classes or have lessons in how to text without sounding like a time traveller from Victorian England to make Dean want him. Cas smiles when he sees wild flowers growing by the sidewalk; he talks to cats he sees on the street as if they can understand what he’s saying. He has pajama pants with little cartoon frogs on and the day he saw them in the mall, when Dean asked if he was seriously going to buy them, he replied “Yes Dean, I’m toad-ally serious,” and then laughed until Dean had little crescent grooves in his palms from the effort of not kissing him quiet. Cas is so many things, too many to lump him into any one category, and Dean blames the clichés for getting it so wrong.

Oh, and there’s another thing the clichés got wrong too. The school nerd (slash best friend, slash neighbour) isn’t pining for him right back.

Dean sighs and slams his locker door a little more forcefully than he intends. It’s been raining solidly ever since lunch and Cas has been quieter than usual all day. He’d greeted Dean at the gates in his charcoal grey sweater vest, the blandest one he owns, and Dean  _knows_  there’s something up. He just hasn’t found a way to ask what. It’s kind of shitty of him really, Dean knows, but there’s a rumour going around that Meg Masters turned him down for a date yesterday lunch time and Dean’s kind of terrified of learning whether it’s true.

“Dean,” comes a voice from behind him and, speak of the devil, “Are you alright?”

Dean sighs and turns around, meeting Cas’s concerned gaze with a forced smile as he hitches his bag further up onto his shoulder, “Sure, Cas, you know me. I’m always alright.”

Cas squints, tilting his head slightly to one side, and Dean takes a deep breath before asking, “What about you?”

Cas’s eyes drop down towards the floor, flickering away from Dean’s like a skittish horse as his shoulders grow stiff, “I’m fine.”

He could be a coward about this, Dean thinks as Cas moves towards his own locker, still carefully not looking at Dean. He could let it go and avoid hearing something that could potentially cause his day to spiral from ‘bad’ into ‘worst day of his life so far’. But this is Cas. And Dean can’t let it go when Cas’s mouth is turning down at the corners like that.

“Bullshit,” Dean replies, reaching out to spin Cas around by the shoulder, fingers pressing gently into wool-covered muscle in what he hopes is a comforting gesture, “Something’s up.”

Cas sighs, “Yes, well, something’s up with you too and I asked first,” he narrows his eyes and Dean lets go of his shoulder to fold his arms across his chest.

“What’s up with me is that something’s up with you! Now spill before I have to resort to believing the rumour mill.”

Something twitches in Cas’s jaw and with the slump of his shoulders, Dean’s heart plummets to his feet.

“So it’s true, then?” He asks after a moment of tense silence from Cas, “You asked Meg Masters on a date?”

Cas frowns, the worried line of his lips twisting into confusion, “Why do you say that?”

Dean shrugs, “That’s what everyone is saying.”

“Oh,” Cas sighs, “Well then everyone has somehow been misinformed.”

Dean’s heart begins inching its way back up to his chest, “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Cas nods, “She is actually the one who asked me out. Obviously I had to inform her that I – ” Cas stops abruptly, his jaw snapping shut, and Dean doesn’t think his heart can take any more ups and downs today.

“That you what? Cas, seriously, what the hell man, you got some secret girlfriend you’re not telling me about?”

Cas runs a frustrated hand through his already unruly hair, “No of course not, Dean,” he snaps, “I merely meant that I declined her offer.”

Dean breathes a silent sigh of relief before he realises that he still doesn’t really understand what’s going on.

“Wait. You turned her – why did you – so why have you been – why the  _hell_  didn’t you tell me?”

Cas’s forehead furrows, “Was I supposed to?”

With a humourless bark of laughter, Dean runs a hand through his hair, “’Oh, was I supposed to?’” he mimics, in a way that Sammy would no doubt have called childish, “Yes, you were supposed to!” Cas flinches a little at the harshness of Dean’s tone, but Dean can’t find it in himself to care, “Jesus, Cas, this is usually the kind of thing you tell your best friend! You’ve been moping around all day and I have to find out what’s up from Becky fucking Rosen, and it isn’t even true! What the hell, man?”

So maybe he’s overreacting a little, and maybe later he’ll feel bad about the shocked, wide-eyed expression on Cas’s face as his shoulders slump even lower, but it’s just been one of those days and right now, Dean’s kind of enjoying being well and truly  _pissed_.

“I – ” Cas starts, hands playing with the hem of his boring, grey sweater vest and eyes downcast, “I didn’t think you’d care.”

“You didn’t – ” Dean starts before huffing another bitter, breathy laugh and thanking whoever’s listening for there being no one else left in their locker area because he feels only a few seconds away from snapping.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” Cas states and yep, there it is.

“You have no fucking idea, do you?” Dean shakes his head, hands trembling a little by his sides. “You think no one gives a shit, and maybe I can’t speak for anyone else, but the fact you could really think that about me is goddamn insulting. God, it’s fucking  _hilarious_.” Dean breaks off to laugh, sharp and a little hysterical, “You think no one sees you but  _I_ do.  _I_ see you. All I’ve  _ever_  done is see you. Ever since we were four years old and you blushed when I asked if you wanted to be friends.”

Cas is blushing again now, brighter and more wide-eyed than Dean has ever seen him, but Dean carries on, couldn’t stop now even if he tried, “I know that when you’re really tired you get bossy and your hands get all grabby. I know that you like to make truly  _awful_  puns and that you get this proud little smile on your face whenever you make someone laugh. I know that you don’t really like video games but you play them with me anyway and I know you hate getting the hiccoughs more than anything because you don’t know how to control them.”

It feels good to finally be saying this. It should feel terrifying, and it does, but the feeling is numb, dormant, and though Dean knows that later he’ll feel it in full force, right now all he feels is relief.

“I know you love peanut butter and you hate jam and that sometimes you like to sit at that window seat in your living room and just watch the world go by because you think humanity is amazing. So I’m sorry if I’m not enough to make up for everyone else being blind, but don’t you  _ever_  think that no one sees you, Cas. Because I do.”

He turns before he can see Cas’s disbelief turn to disgust and marches straight out of the room, bag clutched tightly against his shoulder as he hurries out the front doors into the pouring rain. They usually walk home together, they only live a few blocks away from school, but Dean doesn’t bother waiting. He keeps his head down, blinking furiously against the wetness of his eyes and walking as fast as he possibly can without breaking into a run.

“Dean!” He hears, so distant amongst the wind and rain that Dean almost convinces himself he’d imagined it, “Dean,wait!”

Dean doesn’t wait. He keeps walking and hunches his shoulders.

“Dean,  _please!_ ” Cas calls again, a little breathless from running after him, and Dean stops, spinning around on his heels abruptly enough to stop Cas dead in his tracks a few feet away.

“ _What?_ ” Dean barks.

Cas is breathing heavily, he’s forgotten to get his trenchcoat from his locker and his sweater vest is already soaked through. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his glasses are rain-splattered. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to kiss him more and it stings at the back of eyes.

It’s kind of the perfect end to the perfect tragedy of Dean’s high school movie that he should get his heart broken in the rain.

Cas opens and closes his mouth three times, his whole body hunched against the rain and his breath catching audibly in his throat on every inhale. The silence stretches far too tightly between them, and Dean simultaneously wants it to go on forever and for it to just end already. Eventually Cas shrugs. It’s a small, desperate, pleading little thing and Dean steals himself for whatever he’s about to hear.

“I watched you raking leaves,” Cas says. It’s quiet, and his voice breaks, but Dean hears it louder than the thunder rolling overhead, than the thumping in his chest, and his breath sticks in his throat.

 _I watched you raking leaves,_ Cas had said, but Dean hears, clear as anything, what he means.

Cas sees him too.

Dean moves before his brain catches up, laughter bubbling past his lips in an incredulous burst as he surges forward and Cas barely has time to open his mouth in a gasp before Dean kisses him. Hard.

Cas’s mouth is cool and searing hot at the same time, sending shivers down Dean’s spine and fire through his veins. His lips are soft, trembling, frantic and Dean can’t get close enough, even with a palm cupping Cas’s jaw and the other arm wrapped tightly around his waist.

Kissing Cas is like finding a lighthouse when you’ve been lost at sea your whole life. Cas’s hands come up to grasp Dean’s collar, pulling him infinitesimally closer and when Dean runs his tongue along Cas’s bottom lip he whimpers, standing up onto his tiptoes like maybe Dean’s a lighthouse too. 

When Dean pulls away, breathing hard against Cas’s still parted lips, he feels almost dizzy. Cas’s glasses are so smeared with rain water that Dean can’t help but grin stupidly at them, smile stretching even wider when he lifts the glasses off Cas’s face and sees the giddy crinkle of his eyes.

Cas’s hands release their grip on Dean’s collar and he reaches up to slide his arms around his neck instead, and Dean leans his head forward, resting his forehead against Cas’s and closing his eyes to the feeling of hot, uneven puffs of breath against his lips.

“Bingo,” Cas whispers after his breath starts to even out, more to himself than to Dean, and Dean lifts his head to frown down at him.

“What?”

Cas laughs, pink-cheeked and happy, “We just kissed  _in the rain_. Now I’ve  _definitely_  won cliché bingo.”

Dean chuckles and looks aimlessly up at the sky, grinning like a fool with both arms holding his best friend tightly against his chest. He’s not sure whether to laugh or cry at the thought that all this time, Cas has been having the same feelings, hell, damn near the same  _thoughts_  by the sound of it. He’s ridiculous.  _Cas_ is ridiculous. And Dean can’t wait to see how ridiculous they’ll be  _together_.

“Well, I dunno,” Dean says, looking back down at Cas with a shrug and a mock-thoughtful expression. “I think there’s still some things you haven’t done yet.”

Cas tilts his head, trying to school his face into something a little more serious and failing, “Oh?”

“Well, for starters,” Dean continues, hands rubbing warming circles against the small of Cas’s back, “Dinner? And a movie? Tomorrow night? I might even get you flowers if you’re lucky. Purple ones, because you say they attract the most bees.” Cas’s smile grows impossibly wider and Dean, unable to resist, leans forward to kiss the corner of it before continuing. “Then, of course, there’s Valentine’s Day next month and I was thinking we could head on down to the mall to make out in the photo booth. I’ll have to get you roses then obviously, and  _you’ll_  have to wear my letterman jacket so everyone at school knows you agreed to be my Valentine. And hey,” He leans forward conspiratorially, “Don’t tell him I told you this, Cas, but I also have it on good authority that the quarterback plans on asking you to prom in May.”

Cas hums happily, winding long, elegant fingers into the wet strands of hair against the nape of Dean’s neck “He does?”

“Mmhm,” Dean nods, bumping their noses together and hoarding the way Cas’s breath hitches like it’s made of gold.

“Well then,” Cas murmurs, lips brushing tantalisingly close to Dean’s, “Tell him, from me, that I can’t wait to see him in a tux.”

Dean kisses him again, and ignores the cold of the rain for the warm slide of Cas’s tongue against his.

*

When Dean meets Cas by their front gates the next morning, Dean’s heart skips a little giddily in his chest. Cas is smiling wide enough that his nose crinkles, and even though it’s still cold outside, the only thing Cas wears over his shirt is his light blue sweater vest, with bumblebees around the hem.


End file.
